Wisdom has its costs
by canned-nerd
Summary: Sherlock has to go to the dentist, but he doesn't really want to. Just my attempt to write some fluff, no slash. Oneshot.


Sherlock had not eaten for days. Not that it was unusual for him, John already, for maybe a thousand times, had to listen to phrases like "I don't like eating. Food just slows me down." or "How can I possibly solve this case when all the blood that would usually transport the oxygen needed for thinking goes into organs other than my brain and is used for something as dispensable as digestion?" and other things like that. But usually, in between cases Sherlock _did_ eat. John seldom saw his friend eating, but if it came to the washing up, there was always one plate he didn't remember taking out, or he found leftovers from takeout that he never ordered. That happened about every three days. But now, he hadn't found indications of Sherlock eating something for at least a week. Of course it was possible that Sherlock simply started to tidy up his used plates, but then again it was Sherlock he was dealing with.

Right now, Sherlock was experimenting in the kitchen and John tried to read a book, when Sherlock's stomach growled.

"Sherlock," John looked up from his laptop, where he was typing down the details to their latest case, and turned around to look at his friend, "When was the last time you've eaten?"

"This morning, I had coffee."

"No, I mean real, proper food. Solid stuff that you have to chew and that you actually need for living."

"Oh. I don't know. Monday, maybe." Sherlock still didn't look up from his experiment. He added some drops of a liquid to it and a sickening smell spread in the room. John got up and opened a window to let some fresh air in.

"That was eight days ago! Sherlock..."

"Not healthy. Yes, you've told me before. For you maybe. But for me, it makes me work better, faster."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"A bit, maybe. But not worth doing something against it."

"You're not even on a case! Would you at least have a biscuit, anything?"

"I'm fine John, really! Now leave me alone." Sherlock retorted angrily. John was surprised. Typically, when it came to this topic they only argued shortly, but in the end Sherlock gave in and ate. A reaction like this was unusual, even for the mood-swinging detective.

"Okay, calm down. I'm just a little worried about you, that's all." John stood in the kitchen for a couple more moments, but Sherlock probably decided to simply ignore him. The army doctor decided it was best to leave, so he went out. They were out of milk, anyway.

* * *

It was Thursday, and John managed to find a free spot on the kitchen table to place his food on. He always was extra careful with all the body parts and chemicals around, but the area that he had cleared seemed fairly safe. He placed the fish and chips he had bought on his way home on a plate and sat down to eat. Just when he started, Sherlock came in. John offered some of his food.

"Want some?" Sherlock just stood there and looked. First, the doctor thought his friend looked at him, but then he realised that Sherlock was looking at the food, intensively. John wasn't used to that, usually Sherlock either didn't eat or ate, but then was very picky and fish and chips were not really his favourite. But this was the look of someone who was really hungry, something that John never observed happening to Sherlock before.

"Really Sherlock, it's enough to share." As the detective continued to look at the food, his stomach growled. He sighed.

"That's ridiculous, really." To John's relief, Sherlock finally took one of the chips and began to chew it... very carefully. It took him almost five minutes to eat it. And then he took the next one, same slow procedure.

"Uhm, Sherlock..."

"What?! You can see that I'm eating John, so stop bothering me!" Sherlock barked at his friend.

"Wow, no need to be rude. I just..." John paused to think about the right words he could use without troubling his friend. "I wondered if you are always eating this slow." His friend swallowed and gave him an annoyed look.

"I don't see what's wrong with eating slowly. I read somewhere that it was healthy to chew every bite at least twenty times or so. If you should do one thing, then it should be congratulating me on my new, healthier lifestyle instead of bugging me with such unnecessary things."

"Healthy lifestyle? You?" John couldn't help but chuckle at that. "I don't think keeping rotting body parts around, doing experiments which are obviously against health and safety and eating once in a period of nine days can be called a healthy lifestyle."

"I never said it was healthy. I said _healthier_."

"Sure, whatever." John continued to observe his friend, eating at an agonizingly slow speed. "Just one thing: I think it cannot be called chewing if you're simply using your tongue to push the food against the teeth, trying to avoid the upper ones from hitting the bottom ones."

Suddenly, Sherlock looked like a little boy, whose mother has just caught him drawing on a wall with crayons. After a long and slightly awkward pause, John finally decided to break the silence.

"Sherlock, is there something wrong with your teeth?"

"No. and even if there was something wrong, you couldn't help me, you're not a dentist."

"I have friends who are dentists. I could ask them for help."

"Nonsense. I don't need help."

Sherlock got up, dashed across the living room and tossed himself on the sofa, facing the wall. John got up and followed. "Sherlock," he commanded, "open your mouth."

"What?" the detective turned around to throw a glance that could kill at his one friend. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I am stronger than you and you know that. Plus, you haven't eaten for days, which makes you really weak, and even if you would foresee my moves, I could still manage to beat you up a little and in the end get what I want."

"You wouldn't beat me up."

"Well, if I remember correctly, I almost did once. Also, do you want to risk finding out if I really would?"

John could literally see his friend considering both options, calculating what would be better right now. Eventually, Sherlock sat up, looked at his friend and reluctantly opened his mouth, so John could have a look at his teeth.

"Huh, that's strange. I think you're getting wisdom teeth."

Sherlock closed his mouth and gave his friend an irritated look.

"What's strange about wisdom teeth? Most people get them eventually."

"Yes, but usually before they turn twenty."

"I've told you before, I've always been some kind of... late bloomer." The detective looked a bit embarrassed since it was something he didn't like to talk about. Of course John noticed, so he steered the conversation in another direction. This was more important nevertheless.

"Anyway, why didn't you have them taken out before? I got rid of mine when I was seventeen."

"They didn't bother me, so I kept them."

"Well, by the looks of it I would say that right now you have to let someone take them out."

"What? No it's fine, really. I can live with that." Sherlock replied, sounding a bit appalled.

"You can't even eat! I don't know what your definition of 'fine' is, but for me this is certainly something that is obviously not fine."

"So what? I don't like eating anyway. I can take in all the necessary nutrients in liquid form, it is no problem!"

John did not know what to do to bring his friend to his senses. He was used to a stubborn Sherlock, but in most cases there was enough common sense left to convince the detective of a reasonable solution. But then John realised what the real problem was.

"Sherlock, are afraid to have them taken out?" The look he got for asking this spoke volumes.

"Afraid? No." John raised his eyebrows at that response. "Worried a bit maybe because of the anesthesia. But not afraid, that would be exaggerated."

"It's okay, many people don't like to go to the dentist."

"I do not not like going to the dentist, I just don't think it is necessary to go see one."

John had to chuckle at the denial of something that was suddenly so obvious. "Wow, so the great Sherlock Holmes, who knowingly gets into the cab of a serial killer is afraid to go to the dentist."

"I am NOT afraid." For the first time, John saw a a look on his friends face that was... intimidated? It was hard tell because it was so new and surprising to him.

"If you're not afraid, then I'm calling my friend now and tomorrow you will go there and he will have a look at your tooth."

"Fine. Even if it is not necessary."

"And I will go with you to make sure you don't run after criminals instead."

"Okay." Those one word responses told John that Sherlock finally gave in. He was about to go upstairs to search for his friend's phone number, when Sherlock shouted "Don't post this on your blog." after him. And then, with a bit of a begging look he added "Please." That he had found one of the weak spots of Sherlock Holmes made John smile. His friend tended to behave like a child after all.

* * *

The next day, they went to the dentist, just so he could confirm what John already said: Sherlock's wisdom teeth had to be taken out. The detective moaned.

"We can already take them out on Wednesday." The dentist, a tall, grey haired fellow stated.

"Wednesday's fine. Isn't it Sherlock?" John demandingly glanced at his friend.

"Sure. Wednesday is good."

After the dentist took another look at the x-ray photograph of Sherlock's jaw and after he explained the procedure for almost half an hour (mainly because Sherlock asked personal questions after every statement the dentist made ("I can see your wife is currently cross with you, are you sure that this won't influence your ability to operate on me?") and occasionally stood up to run around the surgery to deduce if it was actually safe enough to "get drugged up with medicine" in order to get his "jaw cut open" and his "third molars violently ripped out of it"), the detective looked rather pale and had his fingers clenched into the armrests of the dental chair, and John also had to deal with a rather aggravated dentist. Despite those obstacles, he still managed to get Sherlock the appointment on Wednesday, got his friend out of the chair and finally back home. Sherlock didn't speak a word on the whole way home and continued this for the next two days. Then, finally on Monday, when John came home from work, Sherlock asked him a question.

"Can you come with me?"

"I'm sorry, what?" John responded, confused.

"Wednesday. Dentist. Can you come with me?"

"I have to work Sherlock. I thought it was fine for you to go on your own. I will pick you up when theyre finished anyway."

"Please?" the detective pleaded. "I don't want to sit there alone, exposed to this stupid dentist who can't even see that his wife is sleeping with her yoga teacher, and be left in his care and drugged up and cut open. I really don't want that."

"What should I do there?"

"Watch if he makes mistakes. And drag me out of there when he does something stupid."

"I don't think he'll allow that I watch." John took off his coat, went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He didn't even moan when he saw a dead cat laying in it, he just went ahead an took out some yoghurt.

* * *

"John, I'm scared."

It was nearly an hour later and John was reading the newspaper when Sherlock finally admitted.

"Okay." John put the newspaper down. "Why are you scared?"

"Well first of all, the dentist is an idiot." Sherlock stood up from the sofa, which he had apparently be laying on all day, and got over to his friend, sitting down in the armchair opposite from him. "He doesn't take care of his children, so how can he take care of his patients?" All John could do was to throw a doubtful glance at the detective, but he simply kept talking. "I will be there, drugged up, unconscious, and he will cut me open... and I can't do anything. I don't like that."

"So?"

"It would be nice to know that... uhm..." Obviously Sherlock found it hard to find the right words to express what he wanted to say. "I mean, if someone was there to, you know... I would like to have someone there who I trust."

John tried to hide how much this confession made him smile. Sometimes it was hard to deal with the boasting consulting detective, there were times he didn't even believe that he was a human being after all, but then it were moments like these that proved him that he made the right decision when he moved in with Sherlock.

"Fine. I'll try to take a day off." He got up and went to his room, but he stayed long enough to hear Sherlock mutter a silent "Thank you.".

* * *

Everything went well on Wednesday, but now John had to deal with a moaning detective, who was constantly chewing on a wet wash cloth, could eat nothing but soup (and baby food, but he refused to do this) and lay in bed all day.

"You know you can actually get up and get those case files yourself, right?" John said when he handed them to his friend.

"No, I can't. The dentist said that I shouldn't do hard work."

"Getting up and walking into the living room actually not considered hard work. Also, I thought the dentist was an idiot? It reeks in here, haven't you let any fresh air in?" He opened a window.

"No, that would require me getting up. Could you pass me my phone?"

John threw it over to Sherlock, annoyed and already regretting that he told him that if he needed anything, he just had to call him. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, to finally get some peace and quiet away from the world's biggest idiot. He was just sitting down and turned his laptop on, when the door to Sherlock's room opened, a swollen face looked out and said "Get up, Lestrade has got a case."

John was baffled. "I thought you couldn't get up? What about no hard work?"

"This is important. There's been a murder. Criminals have to be caught. No time for recovery and stupid dictates such as 'no hard work'." Sherlock seriously put on his coat and scarf and waited for John do put on his jacket, too.

"You seriously want to go out, looking like this?"

"What's wrong with going out like this?"

"You look like a hamster."

Sherlock frowned and went to the mirror to examine how bad the situation really was.

"Well," he said after a while, "I do look rather ludicrous." He turned around to John.

"I better call Lestrade and tell him that the world's only consulting hamster can't help him today. I've got some chewing on wash cloths to do." The two of them shared a hearty laugh, during which Sherlock sometimes stopped to complain how bad laughing was for his freshly operated jaw, just to burst out in laughter again. When the finally calmed down, Sherlock said "I guess all I can deduce today is murder mysteries on TV."

"Oh no, you always spoil the ending!" John giggled. But really, sometimes it was nice just to stay at home.


End file.
